


long black night, morning frost

by brinnanza



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode 4x9: Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark, Episode Related, M/M, Past/Referenced Child Abuse, canon-typical daddy issues, emotional midnight heart to hearts, hand holding, this is basically gen but I live a qpp rights life so it's ship tagged, yes I am writing the exact same waking up in the hospital fic I always write so sue me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26503135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: “Well, what do you want from me, man?” Shawn snaps because he’s sore and tired andshot, and anyway, Gus needs a little life or death excitement in his life from time to time. “Huh? You want me to stop working cases? Stop catching murderers? TrustLassieto figure out whodunnit? Come on, Gus; we can’t let a little danger put us off. We’re good at this!” He exhales sharply, and it makes the bruises on his chest ache. “What else am I even supposed to do? This is all I’m good at, and you know it.”Gus shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s not, Shawn.”
Relationships: Burton "Gus" Guster/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 13
Kudos: 174





	long black night, morning frost

**Author's Note:**

> hello I'm back with The One Fic I Write In Every Goddamn Fandom feat. emotional midnight conversations, yelling, hospitals, and hand touching. this is a post-ep for 4x9 shawn takes a shot in the dark. don't ask me where abigail is she's not important. likewise don't ask me where the doctors are they're waiting for shawn and gus to finish their conversation natch. I tagged this as a ship because ao3's binary options for relationships are cramping my style but assume this is a queerplatonic partnership meaning like they're deffo in love but they're not In Romantic And Sexual Love if that makes sense. also this is a "i will fight henry spencer with a sock full of nickels" account bc I got bad dad trauma don't @ me
> 
> title's from the mountain goats' cry for judas

It doesn’t take long for the adrenaline to wear off once Shawn is no longer actively being kidnapped, and it turns out that without that flood of chemicals keeping the pain at bay, and shock turning down the volume on everything else, getting shot _fucking hurts_. 

Lassie’s running the perp in, so rather than leaning against his car for support, Shawn is relying rather unsteadily on the power of his own two feet. There hadn’t been room for everyone in Lassie’s car, and as the Blueberry plods up to the scene on its rims, Shawn can see that it’s clearly out of commission as a means of transport. He’s a little surprised there wasn’t an ambulance already waiting considering the whole extant bullet wound situation, but maybe that’s the concussion talking.

The Blueberry has barely come to a complete stop before Gus is launching himself out of it, making a beeline for Shawn. Juliet is right on his heels, evidently agreeing with Shawn’s assessment re: ambulance because she’s whipping out her phone and shouting, “Where are the paramedics?!”

“Great question, Jules,” Shawn wheezes through the pain. He flaps a hand at Gus, who’s patting him down like a seasoned beat cop, presumably checking for additional wounds. “Gus, c’mon,” he says, and Gus relents, frowning.

Henry, ever the paragon of compassion, actually scoffs at him. “It’s a through-and-through, nothing that can’t wait a couple of minutes.”

Shawn would really like to beg to differ, except the edges of his vision are going a little fuzzy. Something very odd has happened to his knees, like they’re now made of Jello or some other non-branded gelatin dessert. The rest of his body has gone kind of water droplet on a hot griddle, complete with a staticky sizzling sound that rushes in his ears.

He sags a little against Gus, and Gus wraps an arm around his waist to steady him. Shawn can just picture the concerned little frown on his face, but he’s having trouble seeing it because the fuzziness in his vision is rapidly going dark. “Hey guys?” he says, and he can barely hear it. “Anyone mind if I pass out for a minute? Because I don’t really think I have a choice.” He’s vaguely aware of Gus’s arms around him as his knees give out, and then everything goes dark.

He drifts in and out of consciousness after that, gets snatches of moments like a camera flash in a dark room. His head in someone’s lap. The scream of an ambulance siren. Henry shouting, and, oddly, Gus shouting too. EMTs, sudden motion, a flair of pain, and then nothing.

When he comes to again, he’s been transferred to a hospital bed in the corner of the post op wing, judging by the murmur of voices he can just pick up on the edges of his hearing. He doesn’t open his eyes yet, memorizing the room on instinct from audio alone. 

When he’s reasonably sure of his surroundings, he takes stock of his injuries. He feels, well, like he’s been shot. And then subsequently hit by a truck. And also punched a few times for good measure, just to make sure every single inch of him is bruised. Everything hurts and nothing feels good or floaty, so Shawn is forced to assume his father cheaped out on the good stuff, the bastard.

He groans faintly, tries to sit up a little. It immediately proves to be a mistake. He lies there, whole body throbbing like he’s one big bruise, and tries to figure out who’s camped out beside him without looking. There’s no quiet rasp of magazine pages turning, a telltale sign on his father. There hasn’t been time for his mother to fly in; he can’t have been out for more than a few hours, even accounting for surgery. It’s tempting to imagine Jules sitting vigil, mascara running down her cheeks from her tearful pleas to God that Shawn will pull through, but he knows Gus’s breathing too well to be able to fool himself for long. He lies there for a moment longer, feigning sleep to gather more information.

Shawn may be the psychic in their little duo, but Gus is a competent detective in his own right. “I know you’re awake, Shawn,” Gus says. He sounds exhausted; Shawn suspects his guess about the passage of time had been spot on.

He finally opens his eyes, turning his face to see Gus sitting in an uncomfortable hospital chair. He’s leaning his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He’s moved the chair away from its original position against the wall, but not quite close enough that he could touch without getting up.

“Hey buddy,” Shawn tries, but his throat is too dry and it comes out as a barely intelligible rasp. He clears his throat and tries again. “Henry decide he had enough waiting for me to finish my beauty sleep?”

Gus doesn’t look up. “The hospital would only let one of us stay.”

Shawn suspects there is more to it than that. It’s long after visiting hours have ended, and even though Gus is family in every way that has ever mattered to Shawn, they are not, technically or legally speaking, related in the way that hospitals tend to require. He doesn’t press it though; he can always get the full story from Gus later. “And you won the pleasure of my unconscious company. Lucky you.”

“Don’t, Shawn.” Gus’s voice is rough, ragged, and when he looks up now, Shawn can see faint tear tracks on his cheeks. 

As much as Shawn would love to milk his injury and convalescence for sympathy and pineapple smoothies, he can’t stand to see Gus cry. It feels a little insensitive, even for Shawn, to make fun of Gus for getting emotional about his best friend getting shot, so takes a breezy, nonchalant tone. “Hey, come on, man,” he says, reaching out a hand toward Gus. Gus doesn’t take it. “I’m fine, okay? All patched up. And we solved the case, so no harm done.”

“No harm--” Gus repeats in disbelief. Shawn winces, immediately cognizant of his miscalculation. “Shawn, you got _shot_! That’s a lot of harm done! That’s the most possible harm done!”

Shawn waves a dismissive hand at him and doubles down. “You heard my dad; it was a through-and-through. Besides, I was much more valuable as a hostage. I was never really in any danger.”

Gus’s nostrils flare as he inhales sharply. “I’m not gonna do this with you right now,” he says, voice carefully even.

And Shawn shouldn’t prod him, not in what is probably the middle of the night in the post-op wing of the hospital, but he can’t stand to see Gus with that kicked puppy expression. There’s some emotional, heartfelt declaration hiding behind that expression, and Shawn would much rather Gus just yell at him. He’s used to that, at least. “Do what?”

“ _This_ , Shawn,” Gus says, gesturing at him. “This back and forth where I tell you to be more careful and you make jokes and pretend like you didn’t almost die. I’m not doing that, because if we do that, I’m probably gonna punch you, and I don’t want to punch someone with a _gunshot wound_.”

“I dunno,” Shawn says, remembering just in time not to shrug. “That seems like a pretty good reason to do it now, so if you try and punch me, I can remind you I was shot.”

“The reason I want to punch you is _because_ you got shot!”

Shawn heaves a sigh. Whatever energy he may have had for this evaporates, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to sleep for about a week. “Don’t be the raisins in an oatmeal cookie, Gus,” he says. “Yes, I got shot. I get that you’re angry, but I’m _fine_! Couple of days in a sling, and I’ll be right as rain. Come on, man, it was just a--”

“If you say it was just a flesh wound, I am going to punch you Shawn, I’m serious.” Gus stands, using the advantage of height to loom for what promises to be a lecture. “Getting held hostage once a week or getting knocked around by a dirty cop is one thing. At least when Drimmer kidnapped you, Lassiter was with you. But you could have _died_ this time. Do you not get that?”

Shawn bites back a witty retort on the fatality rate of concussions. “I didn’t die, Gus.”

“You could have!”

“And I could get hit by a rogue piece of space debris tomorrow! Stuff happens, Gus, come on.”

Gus shakes his head. “No. No, Shawn, stuff happens because you think you’re invincible, so you charge off after murderers without waiting for back up.”

“This was a robber, technically,” Shawn points out, unable to help himself. “He hadn’t actually killed anyone yet, and I didn’t know he had a partner.”

“That isn’t the point!” Gus yells. Shawn half expects half the hospital to come and shush him, but no one appears. “One of these days it’s not gonna be a few bruises and a concussion or a hole in your shoulder. It’s gonna be your _life_ , Shawn, and I can’t--” He breaks off suddenly and sinks back into the chair, all the fight draining out of him. “There are some things even you can’t talk your way out of. You’re lucky Shawn, but even you aren’t _that_ lucky.”

“Come on, buddy,” Shawn says, trying to placate him. “I’m sorry I went off without you and got myself shot. Is that what you want to hear? Because I’ll say it again: I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” Gus repeats in a deadpan. “You’re _sorry_?!” Whatever anger had snuffed itsel out in Gus reignites like a spark to dry grass. “‘Sorry’ is for when you steal my clothes, Shawn. ‘Sorry’ is for when you slept with my sister. ‘Sorry’ is for when you eat my leftover jerk chicken out of the fridge even though I wrote ‘do not eat’ on the box in bright red sharpie!”

“Well, what do you want from me, man?” Shawn snaps because he’s sore and tired and _shot_ , and anyway, Gus needs a little life or death excitement in his life from time to time. “Huh? You want me to stop working cases? Stop catching murderers? Trust _Lassie_ to figure out whodunnit? Come on, Gus; we can’t let a little danger put us off. We’re good at this!” He exhales sharply, and it makes the bruises on his chest ache. “What else am I even supposed to do? This is all I’m good at, and you know it.”

Gus shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s not, Shawn.”

God, he can’t do this with Gus right now. “Why isn’t Henry here, Gus?” he asks instead.

The non-sequitur catches Gus off guard, and his expression goes a bit shifty. “I told you,” he says. “The hospital would only let one of us stay.”

“And you, my best friend and non-domestic partner drew the short straw over my actually-related-by-blood father? And he was just… okay with that?”

“Not exactly,” Gus says. He looks away, eyes darting everywhere except Shawn’s face. “I sort of… yelled at him.”

Shawn waits, but Gus doesn’t explain. “And? I yell at him all the time; it just makes him more stubborn.”

“I may also have threatened him.”

“Threatened -- you know he has a gun, right?”

“Yes, I know he has a gun,” Gus shoots back. “Anyway, I didn’t even really mean it. It just slipped out, and before I could take it back, he was throwing his hands in the air and stomping away.”

Maybe it’s the exhaustion or the hour or the pain, but Shawn can’t quite make the pieces fit together. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Time for the $64,000 question: _Why_ did you yell at and threaten my father when his only son was recovering from a bullet wound?”

“Because it’s his fault, Shawn,” Gus snaps. He sighs, rubs at his forehead with the heel of his hand. “This is--” he makes a vague gesture “--it’s his fault.”

Shawn just blinks for a long moment, thrown by the vehemence in Gus’s tone. “Not that I’m unwilling to assign most or all of the blame for my faults to Henry, how exactly is me getting shot his fault?”

Gus exhales slowly, and Shawn can see in his expression that whatever this is about, it’s something Gus has been grappling with for a while. A long while, not just in the hours since Shawn’s pre-dawn phone message. Gus isn’t supposed to have any secrets from Shawn, even trivial ones. Shawn knows everything there is to know about Gus because he sees everything and he remembers everything. Gus’s tells are as familiar to him as his own hands; if Gus has been hiding something, Shawn should know it.

Finally, Gus says, “You know, in most municipalities, locking your eleven-year-old in the trunk of a car constitutes child abuse.”

Ah, so they’re finally going to have _this_ conversation. Shawn’s been waiting for it for going on thirty years now, from the first time he’d told Gus about one of Henry’s little lessons and watched Gus’s eyes widen in horror, brows climbing into his hairline. He’d never quite worked up the courage to broach the subject when they were kids -- not that it would have done any good. Gus has always been a little bit afraid of Henry, even way back when they both still admired him, and then eventually, Shawn had managed to work his way out from under Henry’s thumb.

“It wasn’t like that, Gus, come on,” Shawn says. Henry had brought home more than enough horror stories, and as much as he’d hated his father, there was a line he hadn’t crossed. “Besides, loathe as I am to admit it, that particular lesson did sort of save my life today.”

“Those lessons are the reason your life needed saving, Shawn.” Gus presses his lips together and then sets his jaw, clearly working up to another lecture. Shawn is tempted to cut him off, kick this particular conversation further down the road, but something about the set of Gus’s shoulders makes him think it’ll only be a fight. Gus is stubborn when he wants to be, and Shawn suspects he’s done talking around it. “You act like a damn fool most of the time, but you’re smart, and not just because of your memory. You could have been anything.”

“Gus,” Shawn cuts in. Gus won’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know about Henry, but he can’t hear this again, not now, not when he can’t run away from it.

He’s got it all wrong anyway; Shawn was only ever going to be what Henry made him. He’s had enough jobs to know that being a detective is the only thing he’s ever done that’s worth a damn. He saves lives, helps people. And it’s fun, which is really the most important part. Sure, being held hostage or knocked around once or twice a week is a drawback, but it’s not like he’s actively trying to get himself killed.

“Don’t, Shawn,” Gus warns. “Don’t you dare try to play me. I _know you_. You -- you’re incredible, you know? You constantly amaze me. But you’re so used to hearing that you’re not good enough that you let everyone believe it, including yourself. I know you don’t want to call what Henry did to you abuse, but--”

“Don’t,” Shawn whispers, closing his eyes. For the first time in his entire life, things with Henry are… they’re decent. Civil. Even through the constant criticism, there’s a level of respect that Shawn never thought he’d see, and he can’t do this, not while they’re living in the same area code. “Don’t say that, Gus. You know he never hit me.”

“He didn’t have to,” Gus says softly. “You always did it for him.”

It’s well past the point where Shawn would cut and run, and for a moment, he considers doing it anyway, ripping out the IV and checking himself out against medical advice. He could probably even convince Henry to pick him up, drop him back at his apartment, and they can continue to never talk about any of this. Henry’s good with silence, especially from Shawn. He’ll keep his suspicions to himself, won’t pry, probably won’t say anything except for a dig or two about Shawn letting himself get kidnapped in the first place, as if Shawn had done it on purpose. And Shawn will protest that he solved the case, and Henry will scoff and remind him how they had to save his ass and Shawn should be grateful Henry taught him to escape from a car trunk in the first place and --

And Shawn _can’t_. Because he knows Gus is right, always has, but it’s too much right now, too much _always_. Shawn’s a coward, always has been despite the bravado. Gus runs away from dead bodies and faints at the sight of blood, but he is braver than Shawn has ever been when it really matters.

Shawn opens his eyes, gaze flickering over Gus’s slumped shoulders, the bags under his eyes, his rumpled clothes. Shawn has no illusions about how he must look after taking a bullet and the impact of a Crown Victoria doing 40 miles an hour, but Gus is always so put together. He looks unraveled, and Shawn realizes he hasn’t slept yet. It’s nearing midnight according to the clock Shawn can just make out over the nurse’s station, but Gus makes no indication that he’s going anywhere now that Shawn is awake.

“Hey,” Shawn says, and Gus looks up at him tiredly. “I’m… Thanks, Gus. No one’s ever… thanks.” There aren’t words for it, not ones Shawn can say at any rate. He reaches out a hand toward Gus, wiggling his fingers imploringly.

Gus scoots his chair forward until his knees touch the side of Shawn’s hospital bed. He takes Shawn’s hand and Shawn laces their fingers together, thumb moving in soft circles over Gus’s skin. Everything he can’t say with words he says with a touch instead and he knows, more than he has ever known any truth, that Gus understands.


End file.
